Tangled in Time

It began slowly, like a thread unravelling from the seam of a garment, barely noticeable at first. Hermione told herself that she was in control—that she could keep him at bay, that she could use him just as much as he was trying to use her. But the truth settled in her bones like a quiet dread. Tom Riddle was not a man to be played with.

Each day, he drew her further into his world, weaving a web around her with patient precision. He didn’t demand her loyalty outright—no, he was far too clever for that. Instead, he ensured that every step forward she took, every scrap of knowledge she needed, led her back to him. The books she sought, the obscure texts on time magic, the rituals and theories she might have overlooked—all conveniently placed within reach, but only if she accepted his hand in offering them.

“You should thank me, you know,” Tom murmured one evening as he placed a thick tome in front of her.

The private study room within the depths of the library was secluded, far from prying eyes. The flickering candlelight sent elongated shadows stretching against the cold stone walls, distorting reality just enough to feel unsettling. It was quiet here, save for the occasional crackle of the fire burning low in the grate, the faint rustle of pages turning somewhere in the distance.

Hermione’s gaze flickered to the book before her, its worn leather cover inscribed with intricate, ancient script. Even without touching it, she could feel its significance. She had searched for something like this for days, convinced that such knowledge had been lost to time—buried, forgotten, deliberately hidden. Yet here it was. Because of him.

Her stomach twisted at the thought.

“What do you want for it?” she asked, suspicion sharpening her tone. She didn’t bother with pleasantries. Not with him.

Tom’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile, a glint of amusement flickering in those cold, calculating eyes. “Ah, you wound me, Hermione. You make it sound as though my generosity must always come with a price.”

She met his gaze evenly, refusing to let him draw her into one of his games. “Because it does.”

For the briefest moment, something dark flickered across his expression, something unreadable—gone as quickly as it had come. He leaned back, fingers brushing idly over the armrest of his chair, as though considering her words.

“Perhaps,” he conceded, his voice velvety smooth, deliberate. “But that price is only as steep as you make it.”

Hermione didn’t respond. She knew better than to let herself be lured into one of his carefully woven traps. He wanted her to ask what he meant. He wanted her to play into his hands.

Instead, she exhaled quietly, reached forward, and pulled the book toward her.

The moment her fingertips met the cover, a strange, sinking sensation curled around her chest. It wasn’t just the weight of the book in her hands—it was the invisible shackles tightening around her wrists, binding her ever closer to him.

This was deliberate.

He was ensuring she needed him.

And it wasn’t just the books.

It was the way he guided their discussions, the subtle redirections he made, always nudging her toward the topics he wanted to explore. It was the way he inserted himself into her research, the way he pressed at the edges of her knowledge, prying open doors she had not intended to unlock.

At times, he was subtle, drawing conclusions with the effortless ease of a man accustomed to peeling back the layers of others. Other times, he was merciless, pressing against her boundaries with ruthless precision.

One evening, he posed a question she wasn’t prepared for.

"Tell me, Hermione," Tom mused, his fingers trailing along the spine of a book he wasn’t reading. "If you could go back further—far enough to change something monumental—would you?"

Her quill paused mid-sentence, the ink bleeding slightly onto the parchment. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.

“What do you mean?”

Tom tilted his head slightly, studying her with an intensity that made her feel as though she were a particularly fascinating puzzle waiting to be solved.

"You are a woman displaced in time," he murmured, voice smooth, hypnotic. "Surely, you've considered the possibilities. You could do more than just return home. You could alter everything. The war, the suffering, the lives lost." He paused, watching her. Measuring. "Would you?"

The question landed heavily between them, thickening the air in the dimly lit room.

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

She knew what he was really asking.

He wasn’t talking about the war.

He was talking about himself.

Would she stop him? Would she change his future, erase the darkness before it could ever take root?

She felt the weight of his gaze pressing down on her, searching for a crack in her armor, a hint of hesitation that he could exploit.

"I don’t believe in playing god," she said carefully. "History is delicate. You change one thing, you risk changing everything."

Tom’s lips twitched, though whether in amusement or something else, she couldn’t tell.

"A noble answer," he murmured. "But I wonder… if faced with the choice, would you really let things unfold as they must? Or would you take matters into your own hands?"

Hermione forced herself to hold his gaze, even as her pulse pounded against her ribs. "Some things aren’t meant to be changed."

Silence stretched between them, taut and suffocating.

Then, slowly, Tom leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The candlelight cast shadows across his sharp features, making him look almost otherworldly.

"And yet," he murmured, "you sought time magic. Why?"

Her breath hitched.

He was cornering her.

She could feel it—the tightening noose of his words, the inevitability of his logic pressing in on her. He was toying with her, waiting to see how she would manoeuvre out of his carefully laid trap.

She met his gaze with all the calm she could muster. "Because I want to go home. That’s all."

A slow smile unfurled across his lips, but there was something mocking in the way he regarded her, as though he were indulging a lie she thought she had told well.

"Of course," he said, voice a mere whisper of amusement.

The conversation stayed with her long after they left the library.

But the tests did not stop there.

Tom pushed at the edges of her morality, forced her to confront questions she hadn’t dared to think about before.

"If you could save a hundred lives by taking one, would you do it?"

"Would you betray a friend if it meant stopping a war?"

"How much of yourself are you willing to sacrifice for the greater good?"

Every answer she gave, he dissected. Every flicker of hesitation, every fraction of doubt—he seized upon them, pulling them apart thread by thread, unravelling her carefully held beliefs.

At first, she told herself it was merely curiosity on his part, nothing more than the musings of an ambitious mind. But the more time passed, the clearer it became.

This wasn’t just curiosity.

Tom Riddle wasn’t merely trying to learn about her.

He was moulding her.

Every conversation with him was like a thread being woven into a web—a web she could feel growing ever tighter around her. His words, like silk strands, wrapped around her thoughts, pulling her further into his orbit. With each interaction, he unravelled the certainty she once had, the belief that she could stay detached, immune to his influence.

Tom Riddle was a master of manipulation, his voice smooth and deliberate, always aimed at planting seeds of doubt. He challenged her, twisted her logic, and forced her to confront her deepest beliefs. What was right? What was wrong? What was truly necessary, and what was simply her perception? Every time she thought she had a solid footing, he yanked it away, leaving her questioning her own thoughts.

But it wasn’t just the arguments he presented—it was the subtlety with which he made her second-guess herself. The way he didn’t shove his ideas into her mind but instead suggested them, carefully constructing his reasoning like a puzzle she couldn’t resist trying to solve. Each piece he added made more sense, slowly eroding the walls she had built around her convictions.

And worst of all?

Sometimes, she caught herself considering his words.

It was never supposed to be like this. She had sworn to herself that she wouldn’t fall into his trap—that his seductive logic, his calculated charm, wouldn’t work on her. She had been prepared for this, right? She knew better than to be swayed by someone like him. But there she was, time and again, weighing the things he said, pondering them long after their conversations ended.

Could she change history?Could she make things better?Was it really wrong to alter fate if it meant sparing lives?

She knew those thoughts were dangerous. Dangerous because they were questions she never should have entertained. Dangerous because she could feel herself being pulled into an orbit she couldn’t escape from.

And it scared her.

Because the more she listened, the more she realized the unsettling truth. Tom Riddle had already won the most dangerous battle of all.

He hadn’t had to use force, or threats, or spells.

He had made her think.

That was his victory. Because in the act of questioning, of second-guessing, he had already cracked the foundations of her self-assurance. And in doing so, he had given himself control over her mind, over her decisions.

Each thought, each doubt, was another rung on the ladder he had constructed around her—an invisible prison, slowly closing in, until the only option left would be to submit to his worldview. To his reasoning. To him.

She had always believed that the most powerful magic was that which could be held in her hands—spells, potions, charms. But she had come to understand something far more dangerous: the most powerful magic of all was the one that could shape a mind. And Tom Riddle was a master of that magic.